Hot off the Press

Okay I probably need help, but I couldn't resist this -

The print's rather small so you might have to click on the image (don't bother it's not worth it) and it's here if you've not got anything better to do.

Now I really must get on with it.

Unbelievable

Stories in the news today that you simply couldn't make up ...

"Fir tree grew inside man's lung"

"Nine years for Tesco poo sprayer"

"Man shows off third ear implanted in his arm"

"Man bites snake on tail to escape its deadly grip"

"Man caught having sex with girlfriend while driving at 100mph"

"Bristol Crown Court closed after being overwhelmed by smell of garlic" (Probably put there by a man ...)

Okay there probably were some weird stories about women but none leapt out at me, honest!

Stranger than all that is how much writing I've done lately. I can't compete with Annieye's extravagant Easter output, but I've not done too badly at all. In fact I've rashly set myself a mid-June deadline for finishing the first draft.

There, I've gorn and said it.

Guilty as charged

The other evening I was on the computer (no wonder my elbow's still hurting) when a mini-kerfuffle broke out by the door as the Teens were instructed by Lovely Husband to vamoose. "Stop pestering your mother and let her get on with her writing," he said firmly.

He's very supportive and takes what I do seriously, which is wonderful, but dear reader I was actually on E-bay at the time. Sourcing a new toilet-seat to replace the one that's broken, while simultaneously tracking down a top I'd seen in a magazine. I was planning to follow this up with a raid on the BBC Good Food website in search of a no-bake cheesecake recipe. Not that I couldn't be bothered to bake one, I just fancied one there and then.

Thing is I felt so guilty as everyone shuffled off talking in exaggerated stage whispers, that I shiftily opened a document at random and discovered a short story I'd abandoned a while back. I read it through and it wasn't bad, but I'd clearly lost it half-way through. I'd actually typed "Blah, blah, so WHAT??" in brackets at the bottom.

Spurred on by my family's faith in me I racked my addled brain and shiftily finished it off and after double-checking it wasn't complete cobblers I sent it to a magazine this morning.

And there was I thinking that guilt was completely unproductive.

Maybe if I stand next to the washing-up and squeeze out a tear or two it'll have a similar effect on the Teens.

Porridge elbow

I seem to have developed what's fondly known in our family as "porridge elbow" - a rare form of repetitive strain injury. The term came about when my mum developed a painful elbow that needed treatment, but couldn't understand why. She doesn't use a keyboard, she doesn't play tennis and she's not on her hands and knees scrubbing floors all day long. Then it dawned on her. The reason her elbow hurt like hell was because she'd been stirring her porridge too vigorously every morning for years, to stop it sticking to the pan. Strange but true.

My injury is more obvious. Over-usage of the mouse. My left elbow is fine, but I'm forever scrolling up and down with my right hand on the critter; cutting and pasting and left and right clicking all over the place. When I move the fingers on my right hand there's a corresponding ache in my elbow that's not crippling, but niggling none the less. Like a toothache. But in my elbow.

I'm trying to navigate using the arrows on the keyboard instead, but it's tricky. I've tried using a cushion under my elbow, which made matters worse and using the mouse with my left hand but chaos ensued. I could stop using the keyboard altogether for a while and go back to the old-fashioned method of pen and paper, but the world might stop turning and I wouldn't want that to happen.

My mum solved her problem by putting her porridge in the microwave to speed things along. If only I could do the same with my novel.

And now for some library humour:

We got some new books in today. Do you want to know what they're called? (I bet you can't wait.)

The French Chef by Sue Flay
French Overpopulation by Francis Crowded
The Scent of a Man by Jim Nasium
Wind in the Willows by Russell Ingleaves
Look Younger by Fay Slift

Look, I didn't make them up okay?

It was an accident Officer!

I've read several author interviews recently where the writer claims to have fallen into writing by accident, conjuring images of them lurching around looking dazed having produced a masterpiece without noticing. Can this really happen?

Maeve Binchy apparently used to write letters home from a kibbutz in Israel to reassure her parents that she was still alive, and they sent them off to a newspaper because they were so good, sparking a successful career.

Jane Harris started writing a short story about an ex-boyfriend who happened to be a transvestite, to amuse herself while living in Portugal in the early Nineties, as there was no TV, books or money. Sparking a successful career.

Susan E Philips and her best friend decided one day - just for fun - to write a book together. After some months they apparently worked out a system. Sparking a successful career.

Catherine Spencer fell into writing as she approached the menopause, ready for a change of career, and after eavesdropping on a conversation about writing for Harlequin decided it was too good a challenge to pass up. Sparking .... you get the drift.

I don't completely believe these cases are accidental though. I suspect writing's not something you fall into unless you already have the urge.

Am I wrong?

Just tell the story woman

Things are moving along on the writing front (she says defensively.) I've sold a couple more stories, and I've started writing a new novel that I'm really excited about. It's a measure of how excited I am that I've written the equivalent amount of words as Novel 1, in about a third of the time. (I'm not very good with Maths so that might not make sense. I've written it quickly, let's put it that way.)

I feel guilty about abandoning Novel 1, though I'm hoping to go back to it at some point. It had got to the stage where some major things needed changing and I couldn't quite muster the strength. Plus I'd had this other idea you see, which wouldn't lie down and shut it's face.

The thing is, I keep remembering a quote I read on Gonna be a Writer's website - "you shouldn't practise writing you should practise finishing the writing projects that you start" - or words to that effect, and they keep tugging at my conscience. If I give up and start something new every time the going gets tough, I'll never get anything finished.

'Just tell the story, woman,' is a sentence I say to myself quite a lot. When I'm bogged down, or I've reached a saggy bit, or I've whittled away at the same paragraph over and over again until it's a completely different shape, to avoid Moving On.

But when the story won't budge and the whittling's out of hand, isn't it better to start something that feels like it might be the right shape already, with a bit of careful honing?

Okay, that's enough with the woodworking analogies.

Maybe I should have been a carpenter?

It's a Crime

One our library's best customers is a lady who's getting on a bit, likes a ciggie (judging by the smell of the books when she returns them) and reads a lot of crime novels. When I say a lot, I mean she takes out around ten or twelve on a Saturday and brings them back on a Thursday. Naturally, this means she's read just about every crime novel we've ever had in the history of crime novels, but she gets Very Angry when she can't find anything she hasn't already read.

'Utterly ridiculous,' she tutted and huffed yesterday, twirling the spinners round in an agitated fashion while I was trying to shelve. 'I've read all these, duck,' she said to me, when I accidentally caught her eye. 'I miss your table.' She looked longingly at the space that used to house a display of New Arrivals until it was deemed to be In The Way. Maybe she thought new crime novels materialised overnight, by supernatural means.

'Maybe you should try some of our other branches?' I suggested.

'I 'ave duck,' she said calmly. 'Read 'em all.'

'Would you fancy trying something different?'

'Like what?' She looked at me, outraged. 'I know what I like,' she said affronted. 'But it's very hard to find in this lot.' She gestured at the library in general and that, dear reader, is where I cut my losses and fled. I've had the conversation before, and it didn't end well then.

The fact is, she's read so many crime novels that the authors simply can't keep up with her.

I mention it on the off-chance that one of you might be writing a crime novel. Could you please finish it, publish it and get it to me by next Thursday please?

I'm scared she might be planning some crime of her own involving me, some handcuffs and possibly a couple of cigarette ends.

Red nose and cheeks

Saw this on lovely Debs blog and thought it was worth looking silly for a good cause. If you fancy a go you can download yourself a red nose here.

I'm blushing because I've received a couple of tasty awards. One is from that fine wordsmith Dumdad all the way from Paris, and I've been assured I can keep it all to my greedy self...

... and the other is from the the very writerly JJ in bloomin' Bangkok, so it's gone all International. This one I've to pass on to three worthy bloggers, so I hereby nominate Amanda, Anna Scott Graham and Lorna F.

I'm really chuffed. Plus, spring has nearly sprung. I've hung washing out today.

Drawing the Line

One of my favourite authors, Julie Myerson, has sparked a debate after writing a book about her son's use of cannabis and how it led to the heart-wrenching decision to throw him out of their home.

Now this is a tricky one, because her son did not give his permission for the book to be published and tried to have it blocked. In fact he's furious, and has branded his mother 'slightly insane,' saying, "This book is simply an extension of her maternal journalism. My mother has been writing about me for the past 16 years."

The extract I've read is beautifully written (as are all her novels) and in a way I'm curious to read it because (apart from the drugs, thank goodness) I can relate to it all too well, and her son's reaction could be said to be that of a typical teenager, and in a few years time he might be mature enough to read it and understand. BUT. Would I have written and published it? No. Maybe as a memoir or form of therapy, knowing it would never be published, but I tend to steer clear of including family traumas in my writing. It's hard enough living with them, for heaven's sake! I need my escapism, but of course that's a personal choice.

It may even be a good thing if it's opened a wider debate about the potential mental health problems that long-term cannabis abuse can cause, and how it can destroy a family, but just like sex scenes, I couldn't write it myself - with or without permission.

Is there anything you wouldn't write about, or is it just me?

Book scramble

No, this isn't a photo of customers at the library hunting down the latest Jeffrey Archer novel.

It's a photo of scavengers bargain-hunters at a Bookbarn warehouse in Bristol. The lease had expired and apparently it was cheaper to give the stock away than to try and sell it elsewhere.

I'm not sure what to make of it really. Maybe they could have offloaded them to charity shops at least? I guess if I was the author of one of those books I wouldn't be too chuffed, but I did like some of the quotes in the article I read about it.

"...they have been coming from far and wide. I had one chap call me up from Milton Keynes yesterday ..."

" ... I've got quite a mixed bag, something about hair cutting, housework, and another called 'The Life of Long Legged Women' ..."

" ... people have been backing cars and vans and even a Porsche into the warehouse so they can stock up..."

"... one couple even came in a campervan and I think they slept overnight and then crammed as many books as they could into their van and drove off ..."

" ... the contents of the aircraft hangar-sized warehouse are a librarian's worst nightmare, with the books piled willy-nilly and not separated according to subject or genre ..." Well I have to agree with that one.

I suppose it was better than burning the place down, and if it brings a whole new audience to "The Life of Long Legged Women" then who am I to complain?

AND ... relax

Teen Daughter had her driving test today.

She was understandably nervous, not least because it's been cancelled twice already, due to bad weather, and she has to keep psyching herself up. Then her instructor decided to give up teaching at the eleventh hour, and passed her over to someone she'd never met before, with a car she's never driven.

It brought back horrible memories of my first test. I say first because it took me, ahem, four go's to pass. I was quite confident the first time, not really knowing what to expect, and thought I'd done well but I failed. They're not allowed to tell you why, at least they weren't back then, so after that nerves got the better of me. On my second test I was so determined to pass my mind went completely blank and I failed coming out of the test centre, which was unfortunately situated on a hill. On my third test I couldn't stop shaking and accidentally accelerated out of a junction, instead of braking, and narrowly missed getting hit by a lorry. The examiner looked a bit faint.

The fourth time I was eight months pregnant with the twins, and could barely squeeze behind the wheel. The examiner, a steely-eyed woman with a look of the traffic warden about her, looked at me and hissed, "Don't think you'll get preferential treatment just because you're pregnant." Charming, I thought, convinced I'd already failed. I must have relaxed at that point. I even remember thinking what a lovely day it was. Blue sky, etc.

Naturally I passed, and I was thinking about this today while my baby girl was being put through her paces.

It's been a similar tale with the writing (there had to be a link somewhere!) First Ever Novel was written quickly and confidently and sent out straight away. Nicely rejected, but rejected all the same. I became nervous. Started trying too hard, and thinking all the time about getting published, instead of just writing.

So maybe it's time to relax and enjoy the journey again, and perhaps the rest will take care of itself.

At least I'm not likely to be hit by a lorry. Unless I'm writing by the side of the road. And a learner driver comes careering round the bend ...

Sadly, she didn't pass. I baked her a chocolate cake just in case and I think she's feeling better about it now. I reckon she'll do it next time.

Little things

There seems to be bad news wherever you turn these days. It's enough to make a girl cower under the duvet whimpering, but in my little corner of the world I've decided to make the most of the little things this week. Not the big stuff, like family, good health and being in possession of all my own hair and teeth. I'm very grateful for those already. No, the little things like,

...having a story in Best today, accompanied by a gorgeously fluffy picture that makes me smile...

...it's half-term, so I don't have to trek Teen Son to college and back every day. A journey that varies between 15 minutes and an hour depending on traffic...

...the weather's behaving itself for a change. I haven't fallen over and cracked my head for about three whole days...

...Mad Men and Damages are back on TV.

...I seem to have plugged the gaping plothole that appeared in my novel last week. With more plot, I hasten to add, not an old sock, some newspaper and a smattering of Polyfilla. I did that once when a shelf fell off the wall. It didn't work...

...I've sold another short story to Take a Break.

...I've invented a pudding that has the feel-good factor without the calories that cause my bottom cheeks to swell up. Not a good look ... so last season...

And - er - that's it really.

Like I said, it's the little things.

I Need a Hero

Flicking through my stats today, while waiting for short story inspiration to strike (more productive than than raiding the bread bin) I noticed that the keywords bringing people to my blog last week (only to be sorely disappointed) were "sexiest thing on two legs Armitage." I don't know why, as I can't remember ever writing about him.

This man can clearly do no wrong at the moment. He's coming top in all sorts of "ideal hero" polls at the moment, even toppling the magnificent Colin Firth who didn't even make the list this year. The world has truly gone topsy-turvy. However, I'm not immune to the charms of the Armitage m'self. Or more specifically the character he played in The Vicar of Dibley, and he does tend to pop into my head when I'm writing the male lead in The Novel.

Romantic heroes in women's fiction do tend to follow a pattern, physically at least. Thick, dark hair, chocolate brown eyes, lightly tanned skin, lazy smiles and muscular arms. I thought about writing one with thinning hair, a lazy eye, sticky-out ears and a limp, but it wouldn't work - even if he was phenomenally good in bed and kind to old ladies and animals. This is fiction. Our heroes have to be generically good-looking, alpha males, even if they're penniless and flawed in the personality department. It's the law.

The second most Google-ed words on my stats list were "sheepskin slippers".

Sex-crazed grannies anyone?